


Once and Done

by theroguesgambit



Series: Sex Shoes [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Based on a Tumblr Post, Blow Jobs, Denial, First Time, M/M, PWP, Some Fluff, Stiles is 17, Underage Sex, ish, slight angst, sterek, stupid boys can't talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:38:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1529987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ground rules: Just once, just to get it out of their systems, and they can never, ever tell anyone.  Simple, right?</p><p>...Once definitely isn't gonna be enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once and Done

Derek will probably try to claim it was all his idea. 

He likes being in control, Derek.  Feeling like he’s making the big decisions, like he hasn’t been manipulated or coerced, like it's safer not to pass over the tiniest bit of power to anyone else.

And that’s ok. Stiles gets it.  He doesn’t have the same control issues, luckily, and he’s cool if Derek wants to pretend he’d come up with this, take the lead.

But it was _totally_ Stiles’ idea, ok?  And it was fucking beautiful.

It started almost three days ago…

.-

It’s a completely ordinary moment of Stiles and Derek bickering: Derek shoving Stiles against a wall and leaning in too close, Stiles biting out fast, snarking comments that make Derek blink and scowl harder… and god knows what they’re even fighting about anymore, but Derek’s ramping up on a good tangent about how irresponsible and impossible and a whole lot of other “i” words Stiles is, and Stiles is digging for something smart and scathing to spit back but instead what slips out is:

“God, we should fuck.”

Which turns out to be the perfect thing to say, because Derek goes still and quiet so fast he looks like he’s been freeze-framed.

Some part of Stiles is absolutely mortified, because this might just top the list of completely ridiculous suggestions his mouth has spit out over the years, totally unapproved by his brain (which he’s been told should really have final say in these kinds of things, but somehow rarely does in his case). But another part of him is gleeful, utterly thrilled that he’s startled the wolf so thoroughly. It’s a rare joy, just plain _awesome_ , really, to see Derek staring at him like that, wide-eyed and caught totally off guard. And so Stiles keeps right on going, smirking, waggling his eyebrows and putting on a mask of confidence he definitely doesn’t feel.

“Come on, Derek.  Sex me up. Let’s just have one good go at each other, get all this tension out of our systems once and for all.”

He’s joking, or thinks he’s joking, until Derek draws in a breath that’s a little too heavy and too slow and falls back, lips curling in a hint of a grimace.

“Just… go,” he says and leaves, turning quick on his heel and striding to the far end of the loft, taking the spiral stairs to the next floor in determined, soundless steps like he wants to disappear even before he’s out of sight.

The dismissal irks Stiles enough that he almost follows Derek right up those stairs because, yeah, he’d been messing with Derek and ok, maybe he’d been trying to piss him off and, voila, presto, had succeeded. But it’s not like it’s a _totally_ ridiculous idea.

It’s not like there’s never been anything between them.

A lot of people would call Stiles delusional (like anyone who’s ever seen Derek and him next to each other, probably) but there’s always been some kind of _something_ between them, something sharp and intangible and _real_ that makes every nerve in Stiles’ body prickle into high alert whenever he realizes Derek’s nearby. That leaves his brain-to-mouth filter even less reliable than usual (the Incident of Twenty Seconds Ago, case in point), because there’s always just this overwhelming urge to say something, to do _anything_ , to get Derek to look at him.

And Derek does look at him. And growls at him, and shoves him against way more objects than are strictly necessary to get his Big Bad Alpha Wolf points across.

They’re not Scott and Allison, not gooey, romantic, “can’t think of anything else in my true love’s presence” lovebirds and can Stiles just say _thank fucking god_ for that.  He loves his friend more than he could’ve loved a brother, but the guy turns into a complete dope whenever the youngest Argent is around or even mentioned, even now that they’re not dating anymore.

But Stiles isn’t stupid. He’s highly observant, highly intelligent. He’s the one that figures things out, and the facts are with him on this. He _knows_ that there’s some kind of heat between him and Derek, and maybe it’s just the classic “I hate you so much I want to screw your brains out” kind of heat that’ll go away the second they get their hands on each other. Just… _tension_ , working its way through their young, healthy, hormone-filled bodies (Derek’s still young enough to have hormones, ok? He’s not totally ancient). And it’s going to keep festering until they do something to change it.

But he isn't sure Derek’s that kind of guy – the screw people hard and fast and forget them kind of guy – no matter what kind of bad boy airs he puts on. And Stiles doesn’t even _know_ what kind of guy he is yet, and after nearly a full minute he peels himself from the wall and leaves the loft, forcing his feet to move evenly, forcing himself not to run.

.-

To be fair, Derek _is_ the one who shows up at Stiles’ house this afternoon, too soon after his dad leaves for work to be a coincidence.  He must’ve been hanging around outside, waiting for him to go.  And that says a lot about… something, even if Stiles isn’t quite sure what yet.  Derek’s hands are clenched in his pockets, eyes darting to Stiles and away like he might turn around and leave any second, and he says: “Ok, this is how it’s going to go.”

Like it’s all his idea, like he’s in total control.  And Stiles doesn’t fucking care because Derek Hale is standing in front of him, explaining that they’re actually gonna do the nasty right here, right now. Just once, and not ever tell anyone or even speak of it again afterward, and if Stiles does Derek will bury him in a hole so deep the pack will have a better chance of stumbling across the Holy Grail than finding his body.

Which ok, yeah, threats, blah blah.  Whatever.

Derek seriously wants to screw him.

Stiles halfway can’t believe this is happening, halfway wonders how they took so long to get here.  And there’s this whole other third half of him just freaking the fuck out because god, couldn’t Derek have given him some warning or something?  A call or a text like “hey, I’m gonna come over looking ridiculously hot with my leather jacket and jeans that hug my ass in all the right ways and my perfect hair and brooding jawline and have my sexy werewolf way with you. Just a heads up.” Stiles would’ve… brushed his teeth, or worn a less baggy shirt, or marathoned some gay porn to research exactly what he’s supposed to do here (not that he hasn’t before… done gay porn research, that is.  Not done the actual gay… things they do in gay porn.  Unless experimenting on himself counts, which he’s pretty sure it definitely doesn’t).

Stiles barely realizes he’s staring until Derek’s eyes fall to the ground. His shoulders are all tight and tense, hands still clenched inside his jacket pockets, and his ears have taken on a strangely pink tinge suddenly as he mutters “I mean, if that’s something you want.”

And Stiles suddenly realizes that, under the tough-wolf exterior, Derek’s freaking out as much as he is.

And damn if that’s not the biggest fucking ego boost Stiles could have gotten. He bites down on a smirk – _Derek Hale is nervous. He makes Derek Hale nervous –_ and steps forward.

“Hell. Fucking.  Yes, Derek.  And you better not be messing with me.”

Derek looks up sharply, and there’s heat in his eyes like Stiles has never seen, definitely never directed at him.  Eyes drag down Stiles’ form, and Stiles doesn’t even have to fake the way his spine straightens out, preening, because Derek’s gaze is raking across him like he’s _trying_ to look away, like he’s making one last ditch attempt to convince himself that this is a bad, bad idea… and can’t quite manage it.

Then he swallows, blinking quickly, and he’s back in control, shrugging off his jacket and laying it over the back of Stiles’ desk chair in crisp, even motions. And before Stiles can even really adjust to this new view Derek’s turning away, tugging his shirt over his head and tossing the bundle of fabric to the floor beside the desk and…

_Damn._

Stiles’ heart rate just about triples at the sight of all that corded muscle, the broad shoulders and narrow hips and the dark spirals marking the center of his back. It’s not like this is his first time seeing Derek shirtless – the guy has a harder time keeping a shirt on than a house full of sorority girls during a pillow fight (and that’s another porno, but Stiles doesn’t dwell on it long because, has he mentioned, Derek’s standing in front of him, shirtless).  And he’s always appreciated shirtless Derek; it’s one of his favorite Derek ensembles.  But this time it’s different, it’s better, it sends every nerve twitching to attention (and some other things twitching too) because this isn’t just about looking (or trying not to look) anymore.  Any second now, he’s going to be touching that.  He might even be kissing that, or _biting_ that, or…

Derek’s back is still to him, but his head tilts just enough that Stiles can see him smirking.  He can totally hear Stiles’ heartbeat.  Can probably _smell_ things, too.

 _Bastard_. Stupid, smug…

Stiles swallows, makes sure his voice isn’t gonna squeak or anything before speaking up.

“Hey, so not that I don’t appreciate the view, but I’m pretty sure a strip tease is just gonna make everything worse, not better.”

Derek waits a few agonizing seconds, rolling his shoulders so the muscles in his back ripple (totally on purpose, the jerk) before turning back. And the view of his chest is even better than the view of his back, and the view of his abs is even better than that, and there’s a line of dark hair starting a few inches above his jeans and thickening as it goes in a way that promises an even _better_ view further down.  Stiles’ hands are itching to touch everything (is he _really_ gonna be allowed to touch? He feels like a kid visiting his first petting zoo, and the thought’s just too much and he barely manages to bite down on a giddy laugh ‘cause he’s pretty sure laughter isn’t really appreciated when a guy starts stripping in front of you.)

Derek’s whole body is lined with tension now, the way it gets before he launches into battle, and he takes a few purposeful steps toward Stiles ( _this is it, fuck this is it_ ) but stops just out of arm’s reach.  Stiles hisses out his next breath, can feel the distance stretching between them, heat buzzing through the air in a way that’s all too familiar, like some kind of frustrating foreplay.

Derek licks his lips ( _Derek_. Licks his lips. Tongue flitting out fast and away, lips staying parted because the air’s so thick and heavy now it’s getting hard to draw any in, and it's nice to know Stiles isn't the only one feeling that...)

“You can back out of this any time.” Derek’s voice comes out little rough, and his eyes are searching Stiles’ face like he needs to convince himself it's ok, like he’s worried Stiles might change his mind suddenly and throw Derek out of the house (as if that isn’t just the stupidest notion Derek’s ever come up with in a long line of really stupid notions).

“So can you,” Stiles snaps back, and Derek growls. He’s looking at Stiles like he half wants to rip his clothes off and ravage him ‘til they both pass out of sheer dehydration, half like Stiles is some innocent child he’s afraid of corrupting.

“I mean it. This isn’t a competition, or a challenge, or…”

Screw it. This is taking way too long and Stiles never had an attention span for lectures.

“ _God,_ Derek,” he snaps, and he’s moving forward, closing the space between them and pressing himself against Derek’s bare chest.

Of course, he forgot the kind of important step of getting bare-chested too, but just feeling the hard muscle pressing against him through his shirt, against his hands as they grip Derek’s sides, is enough to send sparks dancing through him. And Derek draws in a startled half-breath before Stiles’ mouth finds his, kissing hard and forceful because if they’re gonna do this there’s no way in hell Stiles is gonna be timid about it, because Stiles literally doesn’t know how to do something any other way than diving headlong into it and hoping for the best.

And it’s _good._

Derek’s startled breath turns into a startled sound turns into a satisfied groan as his hands clench on Stiles’ hips, holding him still while his body sort of _rolls_ against Stiles’ from groin to chest.  Stiles’ lips gasp open and Derek’s clasping his neck in one hand and sliding his tongue into Stiles’ mouth, smooth and controlled in a way Stiles doesn’t even know how to follow, and all he wants is to stand here and let Derek taste him, guide him, dominate him.

…All he wants is to slam Derek into something and kiss down his neck and his chest, taste every inch of him…

He lets out a nervous whine and Derek’s lips break away, mouth going to nuzzle and kiss at Stiles’ jaw.

“What are you thinking about?”

 _God_ that stubble raking across his throat.  It’s gonna leave burns.  Good, good burns. Stiles' eyes squeeze shut.

“What I want,” he breathes back, and because Derek’s doing it and it feels so damn good and he wants to know the other side of it, he leans in and kisses Derek’s jaw, hard and open mouthed, tongue lapping out to taste that stubble, teeth grazing across it, fast and away, and he’s got no clue what he’s doing but Derek breaks off his kiss and arches his neck, breathing hard, so he can’t be that bad at it.

“And what do you want?”

What _does_ he want? _What does he want whatdoeshewant?_

He should have some really good answers to that because it’s not like he hasn’t fantasized about this enough times, not like he hasn’t watched and read and imagined enough to get some ideas about what would be extra fucking amazing, and he wants to sound smart and experienced so Derek doesn’t come out of this feeling like he’s nailed a freaking _kid_ but it’s all flown out of his head and all he can say when he looks up, grabs Derek’s head in both hands and forces their eyes to meet is:

“ _Everything_. If we’re doing this one fucking time, Derek, I want to do everything.”

Derek’s gaze drags to his lips and back up about twelve times in five seconds and then he grits his teeth, growling, and drags Stiles forward by the front of his shirt.

They’re kissing again.  Faster, less controlled than before, Derek’s hands going to Stiles’ waist and lifting him up like he weighs nothing. Stiles’ legs wrap around Derek and his hands are clenched against Derek’s scalp and Derek’s tongue is back in his mouth, flitting in and out fast in a way that feels amazing and promises something much better and Stiles is just this giant, hot, aching Derek cocoon right now, rocking his hips and clutching his legs tighter, trying to wrap himself around every bit of Derek he can touch.  And that mouth is doing _things_ to him so that he barely feels Derek moving until his back is slammed into a stretch of wall hard enough to leave the house rattling. 

He groans into Derek’s mouth, tugging hard at his hair, pulling their heads closer. Their mouths drag fast and savage, Derek’s skilled precision and Stiles’ too-wet, too desperate eagerness. Derek’s hand goes to brace the wall and he pushes Stiles gently but firmly back to the ground. And he feels cold and lost without everything touching but it’s probably a good idea to back off for a second because Stiles is weak-kneed and breathless and too hard already.

“I’ve thought about this,” Derek groans between kisses, hand pressed against Stiles’ chest, gripping his shirt, pushing him firmly into the wall. And it’s so familiar, the echo of every time Derek’s pushed him up against something and growled into his face, and Stiles feels another laugh bubbling up and this time he lets it out.

“You’ve _done_ this.”

Derek laughs too, low and rough in a way that sends all kinds of sensations shuddering through Stiles.

“Not exactly.”

No, not exactly.  Definitely not exactly. But this is _exactly_ what Stiles will be thinking about the next time Derek pushes him against anything.

Except he won’t, will he? That’s what this is about. Removing the need to shove or stare or get in close to each other’s faces.  Just this, once and done.  Fast and hot and reckless and _now_ , and Derek won’t need to push him against anything ever again.  Out of their systems.

An odd pang of want and loss has him gripping Derek harder, pressing into him so they’re both stumbling blindly back toward the center of the room.

“Bed,” Stiles whines, hand raking across the line of Derek’s jeans, and where’s that stupid button?  “And less clothes.”

He catches sight of the bed somewhere over Derek’s shoulder and somehow manages to guide them back to it, and Derek’s following his lead for once in his goddamn life and Stiles is definitely planning on warning him when they reach the bed but his mouth is so busy and his brain is distracted by Derek’s hands under his shirt, pushing it up, nails raking the skin underneath. Derek’s leg hits the bed and maybe he’d have been able to recover ‘cause he’s _Derek_ but Stiles stumbles straight into him and they’re both falling onto the bed, Derek’s back hitting the mattress with a surprised “oof” as Stiles lands on top of him.

“Sorry,” Stiles winces, leaning up on his elbows.  “That was my bad. I should’ve mentioned or… not rammed into you or—”

“Stiles, shut up,” Derek snaps in a tone that’s so completely _Derek_ , all scowling in a way he obviously doesn’t mean because he’s back to kissing Stiles a second later, hands dragging his shirt up… And that’s an amazing fucking idea and Stiles breaks from the kiss just long enough to drag the shirt over his head and throw it who knows where (who cares where? Who cares if he ever wears a shirt again, because Derek wants him shirtless and that’s a good enough reason to quit them cold turkey).  And when he comes back down to kiss Derek again it’s skin against skin and that’s... indescribable.

Why does anyone ever wear shirts?  What idiot came up with the concept of clothes in the first place? Where the hell is the button on Derek’s jeans?  He fumbles blindly but it’s taking too long and he needs to feel more, dragging his hand down, finding Derek’s bulge and cupping it through his jeans.  It’s hot and so _hard_ and Derek arches, gasping, as Stiles palms him through the rough fabric.

Which is just… it’s just…

There’s a wild sound that might have come from either of them and then Derek’s twisting them both, slamming Stiles into the mattress and kissing a hot line down his chest.  His hands go to Stiles’ jeans and he doesn’t even bother unbuttoning them, just lifting Stiles’ hips and tugging them down, briefs and all.  Stiles twists, kicking them away to the ground and for a second he’s blissfully, horribly friction free, but Derek’s mouth is still moving, licking and biting its way downward, hands gripping, caressing Stiles’ thighs, spreading them wider.  And if Stiles could think anything but _god yes, fuck yes_ he’d probably realize what’s coming, but then Derek’s mouth is _on_ him, enveloping him in a hot, wet suction that’s beyond anything, beyond _everything…_ but it’s somehow still not enough.  His body jerks, rocks up into the heat ( _moremoremorerightnow_ ) and it’s only Derek’s hands gripping his thighs that keep him from choking the guy in his efforts to arch upward.  Derek doesn’t seem to mind, groaning in a way that sends vibrations straight through him, and he bobs his head downward, taking more of Stiles in before running his tongue all the way up the underside of his cock and dipping down again.

Just a few seconds and Stiles is so close to the edge already, hands clutching his bed sheets, head thrown back and slamming into the mattress, fighting the orgasm, hips still trying to jerk instinctively upward.

“I’m close… Derek… you have to stop… gonna…”

Soothing thumbs run down Stiles’ sensitive thighs and Derek looks up, hungry and predatory (and how does he still look so _together_ when Stiles is such a total wreck?)

“Don’t hold back.  Don’t fight it. Let it happen.”

Stiles whimpers because he wants to… but he can’t.  Not so soon, not when there’s so much left to do, not when Derek’s jeans aren’t even off yet.

“But… I still want…”

Derek smirks suddenly, the predator disappearing, head dipping to kiss this hollow spot in Stiles’ hip that he’s definitely going to file away for future reference because _fuck_. And it totally almost makes up for the fact that Derek’s laughing at him.

“We aren’t even close to done, idiot.”

Stiles gulps in a few fast breaths because Derek’s hands are massaging faster into his thighs now, head dipping so his breaths rake hot and slow over Stiles’ dripping cock.

“But you said...”

“One time, yeah.  But not _one time.”_ His next breath shudders and his eyes are digging into Stiles’ in a way he wants to photograph and hold onto forever. When he’s a hundred years old and lying on his deathbed the one thing he wants to remember at all costs is _that look_ in Derek Hale’s eyes. “I want to do everything too.”

Then his mouth is back on Stiles, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling, and his hand goes to cup Stiles’ balls and that’s enough.  Stiles lets out a high whine, a rushing filling his ears as the world goes white around him.  When everything blurs back into focus Derek’s on top of him again, caressing his side with gentle fingers, kissing him slowly, languidly.

There’s a salty taste in Derek’s mouth that hadn’t been there before, that Stiles realizes belatedly is _him_. And maybe that should be gross but it makes him shudder and snap back into focus, grabbing Derek’s nape and kissing him harder.

Derek’s grinning against him, taking Stiles’ lip between his teeth, and Stiles thinks maybe there’s a hint of fangs biting into him, which sends every kind of thrill through him.

“Good?” Derek breathes, like he doesn’t already know.

“God… good. Definitely good, better than good… You don’t even know how fucking good…” He should shut up, and he does by burying his face in Derek’s neck and sucking hard, shoving at Derek’s right shoulder. Derek allows himself to be pushed back onto the mattress and Stiles crawls on top of him, hips rocking slowly as he continues to kiss and bite across Derek’s neck.

He’s kind of surprised at how easily Derek allows himself to be dominated. The way his neck arches and his body goes pliant under him.  _Derek likes necking; Derek likes being bitten._ He’s filing it away before he realizes what he’s doing, realizes it doesn’t matter.

And that’s fine, good, better.  Right? Once and done. What kind of teenager doesn’t dream about an unbelievable, no strings attached one night stand with the hottest person they know?

“Stiles,” Derek’s breathless, moaning.

“Mm?” He rakes his teeth across Derek’s collar, grinding his hips downward, grinning as Derek shudders.

“Less clothes.”

And… right.

 _Right._ Because.  _Yes._

Stiles’ hand goes to Derek’s hip with new confidence, trailing across the line of his jeans until he feels the first coarse hairs, until he ( _victory!_ ) finally finds the damn button and tugs it open, pulling down the zipper and slipping his hand inside.

Derek moans and throws his head back, grabbing Stiles’ neck, hand scrabbling through his short hair, pressing Stiles' mouth harder against his throat.  His teeth are scraping nearly hard enough to draw blood as his hand clenches over Derek’s cock, and it’s nothing like touching himself and Stiles is half-hard again just from feeling it.

Then Derek is groaning regretfully, grabbing Stiles’ hand and pulling it away, delivering a fast, apologetic kiss before sitting up and sliding to the end of the bed.

Stiles rolls onto his back, staring, disbelieving.  Is Derek _leaving_ right now?

But no, he’s leaning over, unlacing his boots with quick, sharp movements. Stiles’ head drops back onto the mattress, groaning.

“Dude, seriously?  Why would you wear boots over here?”

Derek shoots him a look.

“It’s what I own.”

“Well, you should seriously invest in some other shoes.  Some kick-offable sneakers or loafers or… flip flops.” Derek arches a brow, tugging the unlaced boots off one at a time and tossing them away.  “You know.  For your future sexcapades with your future sex people.”

He’s not sure, but he thinks maybe Derek’s biting back a smirk as he crawls back over Stiles, leaning over him but not touching, just watching.

“Honestly, it doesn’t come up that often.”

Stiles shakes his head, ‘cause that’s one of life’s facts that just truly baffles him.

“It would if you wanted it to.  You’re the hottest person I’ve ever seen outside TV.”  Probably the hottest person he’s seen _including_ TV too, but he doesn’t want to give Derek too much of a big head.

Um… bad wording.

Derek’s smirking openly now.  Stiles rolls his eyes.

“God, shut up.  You think I’m hot too.”

“I think you’re an idiot.”

“A hot idiot. An idiot you want to screw into next week.  And—”

Derek kisses him again, and Stiles is grabbing his hips and shoving down his pants ( _finally)_ and when Derek kicks them away and sinks down again it’s skin on skin, all the way down. Stiles’ legs spread on instinct to wrap around Derek, and he could just get off like this so easily, grinding into him, feeling Derek’s rock-hard heat against his own.  He’s making noises, desperate, mewling noises he can’t even dream about swallowing down, and his hands are raking against Derek’s back, biting hard enough to leave marks for days on anyone else (and part of him hates that Derek heals so quickly, _wants_ to leave marks, wants the bites on his throat to stay there for everyone to see). And he still tastes himself in Derek’s mouth, and he breaks away, breathless, to gasp “I wanna taste you. Can I…”

Derek nips his jaw, breathing hard, and nods into his neck.

Another twist of their bodies and Stiles is on top again.

His heart’s racing – half anticipation, half-terror at suddenly being in charge – but Derek’s eyes are slitted open, watching him hungrily, and he just goes for it, hand grasping the base and head dipping down to take it in whole.

It takes a second to adjust.  Luckily, Derek has more control than Stiles, and even though Stiles feels every muscle in him tighten up, hears him gasp in sharply, he doesn’t rock up into Stiles’ mouth.

It doesn’t _feel_ amazing, the way they make it seem in movies, like “oh how delicious and wonderful, I’ve been so hungry to get your cock in my mouth,” and for a second he doesn’t really get the appeal. But he flicks his tongue out experimentally and Derek _writhes_ against him, spitting out a string of breathless curses and… oh. Yeah, that’ll do it. He lifts his head a little, dragging his lips up the length of hot, hard flesh, and sees Derek’s back arching, shoulders rolling, eyes squeezing shut and teeth gritting and yeah. Yes, he could definitely get used to this.

He dips his head again, trying to remember what Derek had done, hollowing out his cheeks, bobbing his head, not going too deep yet because god his mouth is only so big, and are people really able to take all of this in? But his hand’s still gripping the base and he tries to massage the skin there in the rhythm of his head movements.

Apparently it’s good enough.

Derek’s hand grabs the back of his head, fingers dragging across Stiles’ scalp again, trying and failing to find purchase in Stiles’ short hair… and that’s _it_.  He’s definitely growing it out.  Not for Derek, obviously, just for future sex partners or maybe just _because_ , because it feels so damn good when Derek’s able to grip it for a second before his hand slips away, and he wants more, wants a hand gripping him, guiding him, leading him and forcing him—

He moans and apparently that’s _good_ because Derek’s spitting out curses again, fast and breathless, along with Stiles’ name, and his hips do buck suddenly, nearly choking Stiles, making him draw back and fight a gag or a cough.  But he’s tasting Derek now, tasting a hot wetness leaking from him, making Stiles flick his tongue out fast, and then again, across the tip because it’s hot and salty and amazing and Derek shudders and jerks every time his tongue feathers over him.

Derek growls and surges up suddenly, grabbing Stiles by both arms and tugging him upward. He feels strangely lost until Derek’s cock is replaced by Derek’s mouth, Derek’s tongue, sweeping across his own tongue, across his teeth… and Stiles wonders if it’s as amazing for Derek to taste himself in Stiles’ mouth as it was for Stiles to taste himself on Derek.

Derek breaks away, hands sliding up to grasp Stiles’ cheeks.

“I want inside you.”

And there’s no way Stiles is saying no to that.

He tries to say something clever, manages maybe a breathy, wordless sound that makes Derek grin and kiss him fast before sliding away.  He doesn’t go far, heading straight to the nightstand and the drawer at the top of it, smirking as he pulls out some lube and a stack of condoms.

“Optimistic,” he declares, and Stiles grins unabashedly.

“Always be prepared.”  Then, licking his lips, “Don’t.  The, uh… the condom. You werewolves can’t get sick, right?”

Derek meets his gaze and Stiles can swear they’re suddenly a dozen shades darker, pupils blown out wide, breath hitching.

“Can’t even be a carrier.”

“Ok, so… don’t.”  He crawls forward, kissing Derek’s shoulder, biting lightly because he can’t fucking help it. “I want to feel you, not that.”

“Bad habit to get into,” Derek warns, already dropping the condoms back in the drawer.

“No habits today,” Stiles breathes, kissing his throat now.  “Once and done, right?”

“Once and done.”  Derek’s trying to stay stern, voice wavering when Stiles slides onto his lap and starts _gnawing_ at his throat, his hands moving fast up Derek's arms, his back, _everything._ “Don’t ever do this with anyone else.”

“Don’t worry,” Stiles murmurs, experimentally nipping an ear and grinning when Derek grips his nape and _growls_. “You’ll be special, Derek.”

It’s a ridiculous thing to say but it makes Derek groan appreciatively, grinding their hips together, so Stiles decides to keep going, hands dragging along Derek’s back and arms, lips against his ear, rocking their hips slowly and muttering a string of nonsense that means nothing ( _means everything)_ while Derek reaches around him and starts pouring the lube out onto one hand.

“It’s just been you, Derek, just you for so damn long now.  Inside my head, inside my _skin_.  Since I saw you in that forest all I could think about was how goddamn beautiful you were and how much I needed this even though I didn’t realize for ages what it was I needed.  And god, it scared the shit out of me how much I thought about you, how much I couldn’t get you out of my head, how much I wanted you to notice me just fucking notice me just _fuck_ —”

Derek’s finger, cold and hard and solid, is pressing against his hole, sliding around the edge of it experimentally before pushing slowly in.  It doesn’t hurt, not with just one finger, but it shocks Stiles enough to shut him up, making him bite down on his own lip and, thinking better of it, bite down on Derek’s shoulder instead.  Which is probably a good thing because that ramble was getting seriously out of hand, sounding less like an itch that needed scratching and more like a sickly-sweet love letter every second.

Derek kisses his cheek hard and a second finger presses slowly into him. This one hurts, makes him gasp and clench, nails leaving welts in Derek’s back.

“Keep talking,” Derek breathes, voice rough, and Stiles whines, beyond words as Derek starts to shift his fingers just barely inside of him.  Like the blowjob, it’s just weird at first. Weird and intimate in a way that leaves Stiles anxious that he’s not loving it, wondering if he’s doing something wrong or maybe he’s just imagined too much so that anything real will be disappointing, but Derek’s still rocking against him as his fingers continue to shift further in, and that’s still amazing so he forces himself to relax, breathing slowly, evenly, feeling Derek’s stubble rake across his cheek.

“I… I—I can’t…” he can barely form words.  It’s not even _good_ yet and he can’t think straight.  Derek’s scissoring his fingers inside Stiles, stretching him, and a third finger’s pressing against his hole.

“You can,” Derek growls, and his tone might be light, teasing, if it weren’t so gruff. “Come on.  You want me, you can’t stop thinking about me.” Stiles makes a breathy noise of assent, but he can’t think up any new words, his brain still too focused on the hot ache of Derek grinding against him and the sharp pain – that’s definitely pain now – of a third slick finger joining the other two, pushing slow and firm inside of him.  Derek groans in a way that’s definitely all pleasure, kissing against Stiles’ throat. “Fine, alright? I’ve wanted you too. More than I should. You… infuriate me, you know that? Just a big-mouthed, weak human who thinks he has all the answers, who jumps into danger without ever thinking about the consequences…” And this definitely doesn’t seem fair, not after Stiles has just gone on about how amazing and perfect Derek is, but then Derek’s growling again, pressing his forehead down onto Stiles’ shoulder, muttering, “You shouldn’t even be a part of the damn pack… but the pack wouldn’t function without you.  You hold everything together, you hold Scott together, you deal with all the insanity, take it in stride and keep on going in a way that just fucking amazes me.” He groans, his fingers going in deeper, twisting.  “Stiles…”

And then they hit something.  Hit something Stiles has heard about, felt for, but never been quite able to find. The sweet spot, and it’s so goddamn sweet that Stiles loses track of the world, track of Derek’s words, arching wildly into Derek’s hand, trying to drive those fingers into his prostate again. Derek laughs against him, twitching his fingers and _there_. Just barely brushing it, not enough _._ God, _fuck,_ no, definitely not enough.

But Derek’s pulling away, not pushing further, and Stiles would fucking murder him for it if he didn’t want him so badly, and he’s whining and gripping Derek so hard it hurts while Derek’s hand runs down his spine soothingly, shushing him.

“It’s ok, hold on.”  Derek’s other hand goes between them, cold and wet with fresh lube, and Stiles feels it as it rubs over Derek’s length, making him shudder, groan.

“Derek, Derekderekderek…” He barely realizes he’s the one talking (who the fuck else could be talking?) as Derek grabs both their cocks and rubs them together once for good measure, shocking and jolting Stiles with the contrasting cold and throbbing heat. Then he grips Stiles’ thighs and tugs him closer, spreading his legs wide on either side of him.  And now it’s Derek’s cock pressing against his entrance, so much bigger than his fingers, so much hotter, and Stiles can’t even imagine how it’ll feel driving into his prostate but he knows he wants it more than he’s wanted anything.

“Now, god Derek I fucking need you…”

Derek kisses Stiles quick and light, just enough to shut him up, to catch his attention while he breathes “stay loose,” which turns out to be really good advice because the second Derek takes Stiles’ hips and starts driving up into him Stiles feels like he’s being broken into pieces. It’s too hot, too thick, and he’s biting Derek’s shoulder again to keep from screaming, reminding himself he knew this would happen, reminding himself that he just has to wait until he stretches, until it gets far enough in… The pain doesn’t let up though, and Derek’s drawing himself out again, lifting Stiles’ hips and pulling his own back, groaning, before shoving himself brutally (achingly slowly, carefully, but it still feels brutal) back in.  This time, though, he goes a little deeper, arches his back a little differently, and suddenly he’s brushing that sweet spot again, making Stiles gasp and surge into him harder. Brushing becomes grinding becomes pounding and Stiles is finding all kinds of words now, even if they are just a mix of breathless pleas and curses and meaningless threats if Derek should ever be stupid enough to stop.

Then Derek grinds into him hard and stays there, buried deep, clutching them close, gripping Stiles’ waist with one arm and cupping his neck with the other, and he’s twisting them carefully so Stiles’ back hits the mattress.  Stiles is being kissed, fast and wild, before Derek pulls back and draws Stiles’ legs up over his shoulders, and then he’s slamming into him harder than ever and _god_ did he think it’d been good before?  Ok, it’d been good before, but it doesn’t even compare to the friction he’s getting at this angle.  Stiles’ hands are clawing at the mattress, clawing at Derek’s hips, his whole body surging faster and more frenzied to meet Derek’s, to recapture that fleeting jolt of perfection again and again.

Derek’s hand comes down on Stiles' cock,  jerking in sync with his thrusts.  And Stiles loses sense of his mouth again, ragged sounds still escaping but he doubts they’re anything more than wild, wordless moans.

His head is thrown back, writhing, but he forces his eyes open just for a second and sees Derek staring down at him, eyes intense and focused and gleaming with an unnatural light… and somehow that’s what sends him over the edge, clenching tight around Derek as he comes for the second time, feeling Derek’s thrusts and jerks carry him through the orgasm, feeling Derek stiffen and growl and come hard inside of him, his hands clenching Stiles’ hips in a way that will definitely leave him bruised days from now.

When he comes out of it this time Derek’s on top of him again, his hand trailing in light, satisfied motions along Stiles’ side.

Stiles feels sleepy and contented in a way he’d never imagined he could, not with another person on top of him, not with this hot, sticky wetness on his chest or a bitter-salt taste in his mouth… but here he is and all he wants is to lie here forever with Derek wrapped around him, his head resting on Stiles’ chest.

Wait.

_Shit._

That wasn’t the plan, was it?

He can just imagine Derek smirking at him or, worse, groaning and regretting getting involved with the emotional teenager with attachment issues. (Namely: getting attached.)

He squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds, breathing in deep, before sliding them back open and pushing himself slowly upward.  Derek groans faintly and sits up too, blinking heavily.

Stiles can’t help it, he leans in to kiss his sleepy, squinting face, long and slow, clutching his jaw and running his thumbs along that rugged, wolfman stubble one last time.  Derek doesn’t pull back, which is amazing, and moans against Stiles’ mouth, which is even better, and when Stiles pulls back Derek’s eyes are still shut, lips parted, and is it wrong that Stiles wishes he had a hidden camera to take snapshots of Derek’s unguarded expressions in these moments?

Stiles swallows, fighting down the urge to lean back in.  They’d fucked.  Stiles had lost his V-card and achieved two more orgasms than he’d expected to today, and it’d been beyond amazing.  Consider the itch scratched, right?

“That was…”

Derek’s eyes flit open.  His voice comes out rough.

“Yeah.”

“So now we should…”

Derek draws a heavy breath, raking a hand through his hair.

“Yeah.”

“Ok.”

“Right.”

They sit staring for several seconds, Derek staring off at some poster – _Spite_ – on Stiles’ wall, Stiles staring at something directly over Derek’s shoulder because he’s _not_ about to start staring at Derek.

“Once and done, right?” he says, a little faintly.  Derek’s eyes drift slowly back to him.

“Unless you aren’t…”

And Stiles isn’t going to do that to himself.  He’s not about to admit that it’s definitely more than an itch, that he could do this all day, every day, and it still wouldn’t be close to enough. That’s not what Derek came for, and Stiles isn’t a hopeless kid.

“No, I’m good.” He shrugs, leaning back on both palms and digging fingers into the bed sheets, hoping his post-coital heartbeat is managing to blur out the werewolf’s usual lie detector.  “Thanks for this.  It was… definitely what I needed.”

Derek’s eyes scan Stiles’ face before he licks his lips, looking away.

“Good, so we’re alright then.”

“Better than alright.  Fantastic.”

“Ok.”

Derek sits there for another distracted second, before pushing himself to his feet and starting across the room, collecting his clothes and grabbing Stiles’ shirt, tossing it back at him before pulling his own jeans back on.

Stiles is still sticky with semen and sweat, but he tugs the shirt over his head anyway, knowing he can’t just sit here totally exposed while Derek covers up.  He can’t see his jeans, and he’s suddenly grateful for how oversized the shirt is.

Derek’s moving fast and efficient, his shirt already back on, his jacket sliding over his shoulders, but he pauses, growling, frustrated, when he has to stop and his lace up boots.

“I told you, man,” Stiles says, searching for something casual. “Sex shoes.”

There’s a faint heat in Derek’s eyes when he looks back up to meet Stiles’ gaze, but it’s gone a second later.  He ties the last knot and straightens up slowly.

“Make sure you shower before you see any of the pack.  Word of this gets to _anyone_ , I’ll…”

“Chop me into bitty pieces and feed me to your wolf pals, I get it.”

Derek looks more than a little exasperated at having his attempt at a threat swiped from him, and Stiles feels a little surge of satisfaction before wondering… shit, has anything actually changed here?

Then Derek just nods, quick and clipped, and turns to the window. A second later, he’s gone.

And Stiles falls back against his sex-soaked mattress and presses a hand over his eyes.

Once and done…  What kind of a stupid idea was that, anyway?

.-

Things go back to more or less the way they’d been before.  They still scowl and snipe at each other (sometimes, Stiles thinks, with more venom than before).  Though Derek doesn’t slam him into anything now.  He’s actually strangely careful about the way he touches Stiles… which is basically never; stepping in front of Stiles when danger comes his way instead of shoving him out of the line of fire, scanning him from a distance for injuries instead of grabbing him and looking him over after a fight.

It goes on for about two straight weeks like that, and Stiles is just beginning to accept this as the new norm.  The new, possibly even more frustrating norm.  Until one afternoon Isaac flicks Stiles’ head for no apparent reason and announces, “Guys, what’s with all the new looks going on?”  Stiles, rubbing his forehead (even werewolf finger flicks hurt worse than a normal person’s), asks him what the hell he’s talking about. Isaac shrugs.

“Just, you know, your hair getting all long and shaggy.”

It’s hardly ‘long and shaggy’ after two weeks, but Stiles did forget to buzz it back one day and then just kept on forgetting.

‘Cause he’s busy fighting werewolves and saving the world and stuff.

And also maybe for hypothetical non-Derek sex partners.  ‘Cause a guy needs to be prepared, right?

“That doesn’t exactly qualify as ‘all the new looks.’”  Stiles says, frowning.

Isaac shrugs again.

“Well, Allison’s apparently chopped off half _her_ hair in France, and Derek’s wearing those _._ ”

Stiles follows Isaac’s pointing finger, and he nearly chokes on his next breath.

“Oh yeah,” Scott says from his place on the couch.  “Nice kicks, Derek.”

Then he shoots Stiles a puzzled look, because every werewolf in the room can probably hear the way his heart rate’s kicked up about three gears. But Stiles is only focused on Derek. Specifically, Derek’s feet. More specifically, the low black sneakers with the loose laces.

Sex shoes.

They’re in front of everyone, and Stiles is sworn to secrecy under penalty of evisceration or something.  He can’t say what he wants to, what he’s aching to, so he just drags his eyes back up to Derek’s and clears his throat.

“Once and done?”

Derek rolls his shoulders, light and casual, lips twisting upward.

“We didn’t do everything, did we?”

Stiles feels himself smirking.  Well, doesn’t Derek just think of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my own gifset, actually. Found here
> 
> I sat down to write more "Chaotic" and this came out instead. It's actually my first venture anywhere near PWP or any kind of straight sex fic. (Not... "straight" sex fic, obviously :P ) Let me know what you think.
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


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